


Unhappy

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Comfort Food, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Greg isn't, Grumpy John, Injured John, John is a terrible patient, M/M, Pet Names, Psychosomatic pain, Sally is helpful, Sherlock's Florence Nightingale touch, Swearing, also actual pain, sweary John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is confined to Baker Street because of his fractured arm. He is the worst patient in the world. He has been swearing at his sweetie. His sweetie seeks advice at a crime scene, then goes home to a) deduce John's problem and b) provide comfort. For a snugglebunny price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhappy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been enjoying and commenting on this series. More domestic fluff and pet names for you.
> 
> And I am absolutely giddy with delight that Lovesfic (me23) was inspired to create a cover for this series!! [LOOK HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1174136). Their little faces are a perfect match for the tone of these stories. :) How chuffed am I? You guys - SO CHUFFED!!!

Lestrade watched Sherlock stomp around the crime scene. ‘Stomp’ was perhaps overstating it, but normally the lanky git leapt around the place like a cat. Today Sherlock was not cat-like. Today he was heavy of foot and surly of brow. Well, the latter wasn’t actually new either, but Sherlock had been like that even before he’d seen Anderson on the case.

“You okay?”

“What? Of course I’m okay. Why would I not be okay?”

“Because John is at home with a banged up arm and you have to do your whole crime scene performance without a cheer squad?”

Sherlock ceased his restless, heavy-footed pacing and glared.

“John’s absence from this case is in no way relevant. He is injured and in pain and therefore banished from working at the hospital or with me until such a time as he can walk without reeling from the effect of the painkillers and open his mouth for more than two seconds at a time without railing at the world in a filthy temper.”

Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut and he drew himself up haughtily.

“The doctor makes a lousy patient, does he?”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged a little. “The very worst.”

Lestrade nodded.  “I’m fairly vile in a sickbed myself. I hate feeling useless.”

“John is not useless.”

“Of course he isn’t. I just mean, when I’m forced to take time off, it pisses me off. So much other stuff I should be doing, and of course that arm of his has got to hurt like a bastard.”

“His pain medication is of a sufficient dosage, he assures me. Whilst swearing at me.”

“Ah well.” Lestrade patted Sherlock’s arm kindly, “Some people are just terrible patients, and from what he said yesterday, about morphine withdrawal, maybe he associates enforced bed rest with the whole… being shot thing.”

Lestrade noticed Sherlock’s absolute stillness. He cocked his head and waited, but Sherlock just grimaced and said “I’m an idiot”, which was uncommon enough, but then he turned to Sally Donovan – _Sally Donovan_ – and said “When you’re unwell, what do you like your partner to do for you?”

Sally looked up from the notes she was making. “You being funny? You _know_ I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“Yes, of course, but when you _are_ , what do you like him to do when you’re bedridden and in a foul temper?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how sick I am and with what, but generally? Ice cream. Chocolate – not any chocolate, mind – it’s got to be a box of Guylian shells, and Marks and Sparks toffee ice cream. The comfort food of kings.” Her expression was momentarily beatific, than she gave Sherlock a more measured look. “If I can’t eat, a foot rub and a silly movie is good. Something with explosions, usually. A bit of pampering, I guess.” Sally peered at him, then offered a surprisingly kind smile. “I’d guess John might want to just feel he’s not a nuisance, that he has permission to take it easy. I’m assuming he’s the foul tempered invalid in question?”

“Why would he need _permission_ to be unwell?” Sherlock’s disdain for the comment was palpable.

“Perhaps because he’s a doctor and is always the one looking after other people?” Sally suggested.

Sherlock actually appeared to contemplate that. He looked piercingly at Lestrade. “Do you feel you need permission to be ill?”

“Don’t be stupid,” laughed Lestrade.

“He comes in,” interjected Anderson, “Because he thinks everything will grind to a halt without him.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ‘ah’?” demanded Lestrade.

“Nothing. Just… _Ah_.”

Lestrade scowled at him. “Git. And I can tell you what John needs to cheer up. A beer and a match to watch.”

“When you are ill and foul tempered you come into work regardless,” Sherlock pointed out, “And if you are forced to stay at home, you camp on the sofa and watch reruns of football matches, the outcomes of which are already known to you, which is so stupefyingly inane I cannot begin to comprehend how your brain doesn’t simply have an aneurism in self-defence. I already tried putting John in front of old football games. Even _he_ looked like I was mad for thinking of it. Your example was no help at all.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I _wanted_ to stupefy in front of old matches, but the ex, as you recall, didn’t exactly have the Florence Nightingale touch, and if I asked for a bit of pampering she told me she didn’t want to catch my germs and that I was terrible company and took off for the day.”

“So you agree, as a resource for this situation, you are limited.”

“Screw you. What about this murder?”

Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade and made a final circuit of the crime scene, which consisted of a dead interior decorator with a bad haircut, his suit covered in dog hairs but no dog was present, some savagely obliterated photographs, and a diamond necklace that was in fact paste.

“Question the victim’s hairdresser and his dog walker, and collect his dry cleaning: ask about the stains on the sleeve, which I imagine they couldn’t get out. Then find out where the victim’s boyfriend is. My guess is he’s under the extension in the back yard. Indications are the hairdresser and dog walker were in cahoots: blackmail of course. I suspect the dead boyfriend used to work with one of them.”

“Another murder?”

“I give value for money, Lestrade.” Sherlock strode towards the door.

“Oi! Paperwork!”

“Send it over later. It appears I need to develop my... Florence Nightingale touch.”

*

John sat on the sofa, cursing. Softly, loudly, in his head, way out loud. He was staring at the packet of painkillers on the coffee table. Every four hours, the instructions said. Half an hour to go.

He held his bruised and fractured right arm close against his side, and had his left arm crossed over his body, hand resting on his right shoulder, trying to ease the ache in the old wound.

On the kitchen floor were the remains of a coffee cup and the lunch he’d tried to reheat in the microwave. He was supposed to eat before taking his painkillers. Well, fuck that. Fuck that, fuck the microwave, fuck the Chinese leftovers which would have tasted foul microwaved anyway. Fuck the tea, fuck the milk that was off, fuck the stupid fucking television and its fucking stupid fucking daytime fucking programming, fuck the newspaper, fuck the medical journals he couldn’t concentrate on. Fuck the thriller he was trying to read but was fucking stupid and predictable and fucking hell fuck this fucking arm and his fucking shoulder and his godforsaken fucking fucker of a fucking leg that after all this time was fucking aching, a throb in counterpoint to the unholy fucking headache he also fucking had.

“What do you fucking want?” he snarled, glaring up at the tall man looming over him in their living room.

“How are you feeling, John?” Sherlock asked solicitously, because he had observed that one should ask such things, even if the answer was obvious.

“How the fuck do you fucking think I’m fucking feeling?”

“Poorly?” said Sherlock, deadpan. He didn’t seem to be starting well with the whole Nightingale business.

“Fucking brilliant. We can see why you’re the genius. So, what, you’ve stopped by to bring me some sweetness and light before fucking off to get shot at without backup?”

“Yes to one, no to two. It was an easy case.”

“You’re being an insufferable prick, Sherlock.”

“You are hardly being a fluffbundle, John.”

John’s eyebrows scrunched together and he stared. “Fluffbundle?”

“Not much at the moment, no.”

John blinked and tried to think though the haze of pain and pain-induced wrath. “Do you mean fluffpuddle?"

"No. That’s what _you_ call _me_. Fluffbundle is what _I_ called _you_. Last night. When you came home and were being a… fluffbundle.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock, who was saying that word ‘fluffbundle’ as seriously as he’d ever said ‘locked room triple homicide’.  Much more seriously, in fact, since Sherlock was generally giddy with delight over locked room triple homicides.

Then John took a very deep breath and let it out very, very slowly.

“I’m so sorry, sweetpea. I’m a foul wretch when I’m housebound, and my arm is killing me and I’m not due for more painkillers for a  hundred years yet.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” As bedside manners went, Sherlock’s was dreadful, but he placed a bag on the coffee table, kicked off his shoes and picked up the TV remote.

“Oh god, don’t,” groaned John, “It appals even me at the moment, and you know I have a high tolerance for crappy daytime TV." 

Sherlock ignored him. Instead of replying, he plucked a DVD out of the shopping bag, crossed the room as he peeled off the plastic wrapping and put the freed disk into the player. He returned to the sofa as the disk began to load.

“It has come to my attention,” said Sherlock, waving for John to budge up on the sofa, “That you are possibly a bigger idiot than even I took you for.”

John stopped budging up, which had also involved hissing with pain, to glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock inserted himself on the sofa to John’s left and undid a few shirt buttons, apparently to make himself more comfortable. His expression, when he looked at John, was affectionate and indulgent.

“You have no reason to feel _guilty_ about your injury, John.”

John blinked. “What the…”

“You aren’t merely in pain, John, or even merely inconvenienced. You are _enraged_ by your current incapacity. And you feel…” Sherlock cocked his head to examine John’s face, “Afraid doesn’t seem the right word, but apprehensive, certainly. I am not putting myself in any undue danger in your absence, John. I promised I wouldn’t." 

“Yeah, but you forget things like that when you’re on the chase.”

“A fair point,” Sherlock conceded, “Nevertheless, I’m aware that I’m more vulnerable without you by my side, and I am taking care and only taking cases where I don’t think you’ll be needed.”

“Good,” said John grumpily, “Nice to know I’m not actually indispensible.”

Sherlock sighed. “And there’s _that_. John, this situation isn’t like when you were shot.”

John stared.

“You…” John’s mouth clipped shut. He opened it again. “I…” Shut again.

“You’ll heal,” said Sherlock, “You’ll be on your feet, at the hospital, with me, in a week at the outside. We’ll have to be careful of the fracture for a while after that, but you’ll certainly feel strong enough for cases like today’s, and more vigorous ones soon after.”

“Sherlock,” said John darkly, “You are pissing me off right now.”

“Everything is pissing you off right now,” said Sherlock reasonably, “You’re in pain, you feel useless, you are concerned something will happen to me while you are confined here, and you are unpleasantly reminded of your period of convalescence after your medical discharge, whether or not you realise that’s the case.”

“So you’re a psychiatrist now?”

“No.” Sherlock, uncowed by John’s temper, looked at John steadily, not a hint of scorn or impatience or even hurt at John’s scathing tone. “I am but a poor student of Johnology, and I have been reminded that you do the bulk of the medical support and care, both professionally and personally, and that I should let you know that it’s perfectly all right to be ill.”

“Of course it’s perfectly all fucking right. _I broke my arm_. Like an _idiot_.”

“No, John. Benny Boofhead, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan broke your arm, like idiots, and don’t think I am not devising suitable punishments for each of them in turn. But they can wait for a later time, when you are free to help me carry out my schemes.”

“Sherlock…”

“Fluffbundle.”

That made John stop and blink.

“My John. My doctor. My blogger. My wonderful idiot. My dear _bundle of fluff_ , when the mood is on you. Your old wound is aching, and you’ve been limping again, and given these things rarely happen, they are certainly a psychosomatic response to the injury done to your arm. But these are different times to those when you were first back in London, and you will not be cast out of here to limp around the city, fearing you no longer have a purpose. You are at home, with me, and alongside the purpose you have already found in medicine and our work, you have the added purpose that _I love you_ , and _you love me_ , and you have made it clear that neither of us has to be self-sufficient _all the time_.”

“Sweetheart,” John breathed.

“You will mend,” Sherlock told him, “And you are not alone, and as you care for me when I am ill and a terrible patient, so I will care for you when you are injured and a frankly terrifying one.

John’s face fell. “Sorry, baby. God. I know. I’m awful.”

“I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

John huffed a sigh of pain and of recognition that one always has to pay a price.

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek in his hand and leaned forward to kiss John’s brow. “Call me sweet names, John, and then let me look after you.”

“Sweetpea,” said John, looking into Sherlock’s pale eyes, letting his own show the pain and discomfort and, yes, transferred anxiety, he was feeling. He hated being helpless. He hated feeling he was letting down the people who needed him.

“There, now,” said Sherlock gently, “Your terrible film is starting.” He drew John against his half-bared chest and, with careful manoeuvring, ended up stretched on the sofa, his back propped into the corner, John lying in the V of his body. John was curled on his left side, head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms were around him, offering careful support to the battered arm.

“It’s the new Bond film,” said John.

“Yes.”

“You hate Bond films.”

“You like them. They are full of things that explode and ridiculous scenarios that cannot possibly be plausible and mostly defy all known laws of physics and science, and could never be the slightest bit taxing on the brain.”

John grinned, then closed his eyes as Sherlock petted his hair. Sherlock stretched out a long arm for the bag on the table, bringing it closer to his side. From it he withdrew a bottle of soft drink, which he deftly opened and then added a straw. He held the straw to John’s lips. “Drink,” he said, “You’re letting yourself get dehydrated.”

John, eyes closed, took the straw in his lips and sipped. “Cherry Vimto,” he said with a sigh after the sweet fizzy drink had cooled his throat. “God, I love Cherry Vimto. My mum used to get it for me when I was sick as a kid.”

“You don’t drink it often. But that’s the face you make when you do.” Sherlock ran a gentle finger over John’s cheek. Lingering at the corner of John’s smiling mouth.

“Thanks, sweetling.” John took another sip and relaxed.

Sherlock reached for the packet of painkillers and popped two into his hand. He held that for John to lip from his palm and held the bottle while John sipped more soft drink to swallow them down.

“Supposed to have those with food,” said John, moving as though to rise. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder and applied just enough pressure to dissuade him of the need.

“I have those sandwiches you like from Pret a Manger,” he explained. He took the packet of sandwiches from the bag, opened them and broke a piece off in his fingers. John rolled his eyes to look up at Sherlock. He blinked rapidly at the sight of Sherlock gazing fondly down at him.

“Sweetheart,” said John, “Precious thing. I’m sorry I’m such an arse when I’m ill.”

“Forgiven. Say something lovely and I’ll let you have some ham and egg with mustard mayonnaise.”

John grinned. “My honeybumble. My glorious, brilliant, utterly amazing cherry blossom, beautiful precious thing, sweet kitten…” The litany was interrupted by Sherlock pressing a portion of sandwich to John’s lower lip. John opened his mouth and ate the bite, then Sherlock held the straw for him to sip.

John sighed and relaxed, letting himself be fed, taking sips of Vimto, and half watching Bond do things that were not half as ridiculous as the things he and Sherlock got up to most of the time. Between bites of food, he kissed Sherlock’s fingers and called him names like _lovebunny_ and _Nurse Delicious_ and _lollipop_ – the latter after being offered Sherlock’s thumb to lick it clean of mayonnaise.

After a while, when the painkillers had kicked in and John had eaten enough, he snuggled into his warm position in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock popped the Union Jack cushion under John’s right arm for better support, and then just stroked John’s hair, around his ear, over his shoulder and down to his hip. Soothing and unhurried.

“You’re right, you know,” mumbled John eventually.

“Of course I am,” said Sherlock, “What about, this time?”

John laughed softly and kissed the bare patch of skin under his cheek. “I transfer how I felt then. I hate this. Being stuck here, not at work not with you. Arm aching like buggery. And I feel like I did then. Useless. Adrift. I was so afraid that it was the end for me, back then. I’d end up a useless drunk, some charity case. Everything was so pointless. Everything I was had been lost, and I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

“That’s not true now,” said Sherlock firmly.

“No. Mike Stamford pushed me in your direction, and you changed everything.”

Sherlock lowered his head to kiss the top of John’s head. “It was alchemy, John. _We_ changed everything _together_. So stop feeling like this is the same as it was. You are not alone. You are not useless or lost. You are my John Watson, and I am your…” he hesitated and grinned, “Honeybee.”

John nodded and the last of the tension bled away from his body. He sank against Sherlock and closed his eyes.

“This feels nice,” he said.

“I have dessert,” said Sherlock, “If you want it. Well, two. I couldn’t decide.”

“Mmm. That’d be lovely.” John pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest and kissed the skin again. “Snugglebear.”

Sherlock stroked John’s hair, noting how the lines of tension had eased, his muscles relaxed, the tightness around his eyes softened. “Keep your eyes closed. Tell me what this is.”

John felt Sherlock’s finger, sticky with some thick, sweet sauce, against his lower lip. He opened his mouth and Sherlock slipped the pad of his finger in against John’s tongue. John sucked most of the sauce off, but Sherlock didn’t move his hand, so John took his time, licking and sucking at Sherlock’s finger until all trace of the sweet treat had vanished.

“Tesco’s Chocolate Custard,” he sighed afterwards, “God, you really do love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but I still don’t know how you can like that stuff. It’s disgusting.”

“Comfort food isn’t logical,” said John, licking his lips.

“Try this one.”

Two fingers pressed against his lips this time, and John opened his mouth to feel Sherlock slip fingers coated in thick caramel sauce against his tongue. John sucked lavishly, licking at the sauce and Sherlock’s fingers for much longer than necessary.

“Waitrose’s Seriously Buttery Caramel Dipping Sauce,” said Sherlock, as John continued to kiss his fingers although there was no caramel left to taste, “Is what I call a proper comfort food.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” John grinned.

“More?”

“No. that’s enough. That’s perfect.” John kissed Sherlock’s fingers, his palm, his wrist. “My lollipop. Beautiful boy.”

“You need to sleep now.”

“Mm-hmm,” agreed John, drifting off already.

“Fluffbundle.”

John opened one eye and grinned up at Sherlock. Sherlock brushed his fingers over John’s eyebrow. “I like the way it makes you smile,” he explained.

“Know what you mean. Pookie. And there it is.” He grinned at Sherlock’s slightly self-conscious, entirely delighted smile.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John’s hair.

“Sorry again,” said John sleepily, “About being such a shit today.”

“Just remember, John. Everything’s different now. You are amazing, and you have me.”

“Yeah,” agreed John, and with a breathy sigh he rolled half onto his back, so his injured arm was supported by Sherlock’s waist and hip, and fell asleep.

It was at this point that Sherlock belatedly realised that, unless he wanted to wake John up again, he was stuck there for the duration of the nap. While that godawful movie finished playing.

And he couldn’t reach the remote. Or his phone.

But, oh well, he could eat the remaining Waitrose caramel sauce, the other half of John’s sandwich and the chocolate croissant he had picked up at the same time.

Sherlock proceeded to kill time by eating caramel with his fingers, occasionally smearing dabs of it onto John’s lower lip to see if he would lick it off in his sleep (he did) and inserting _lollipop_ , _pookie_ and the look on John’s face when Sherlock called him a _fluffbundle_ into the sunniest room of his mind palace.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unhappy [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465299) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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